


A clear cut

by ifonenight



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam Gets a Haircut, Supportive Castiel, Supportive Dean, Swearing, Team Free Will, but it's gonna be alright, could be easily read as gen, this poor baby has gone through too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8035672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonenight/pseuds/ifonenight
Summary: Thing was, he hated feeling angry. And yet sometimes... sometimes it felt so good.Or that time Sam finally got his hair cut, but not without having to work for it, because when has life ever been easy for the Winchesters?





	A clear cut

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing Sam’s pov, and I have to thank [lotor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lotor/profile) for helping me with that _and_ for beting this story. 
> 
> [Prompt](http://buckybee.tumblr.com/post/150375289434/this-is-sort-of-an-odd-prompt-but-i-am-in-love): “This is sort of an odd prompt, but I am in love with fics about Sam getting his hair cut. I'm pretty sure I've read every one out there. Could you please do one like that?”

Sam was pissed.

He was pissed without any apparent reason, which only put him even more on edge.

It happened from time to time, when everything just got _too much_ , when stuff piled and piled and one little thing became enough to set him off.  
There were always signs, but he usually was too distracted to recognize them - he did have to save the world on regular basis, thank you very much - and ended up being confused and surprised once his bad mood would take roots.

 

Anyway, today he was pissed off, and his fucking bangs wouldn't stop getting in his eyes while he tried to translate some old, obscure book. He kept tugging them out of the way, angrily pushing them behind his ears a little more forcefully every time. 

He usually enjoyed research, he did; focusing on a goal, learning all that was to know about it, putting everything together - he loved logic and he loved knowledge. And he loved that soft, powerful feeling of control that came with defying complexity and figuring his target out.

So yeah, he loved research. But today it was really hard to concentrate with his fucking hair falling over his face every time he lowered his head.

 

When Dean apparently decided he had had enough, there was a small pile of it next to the tome he was trying to read.

“Hey,” his brother snapped, catching Sam’s wrist on its way to his head, “Stop it. You're gonna get bald if you keep this up.”

“Thought you wanted me to cut my hair,” Sam snarled back, tugging his arm free. “Bitch about it every second like I fucking cared.”  
He was so riled up, so ready for a good old fight.  
Which should have been enough to make him realize something was off, but he was too damn annoyed to care.

 

Thing was, he hated feeling angry. There were so many things Dean and him could have been angry about, and they had, for the most part, but after a while it had just got… exhausting. Being furious with their enemies, with their allies, with friends, lovers, family, the whole world, being furious of being furious. It was all so damn draining.  
There was only so much fuel bodies and souls could offer without being worn down by it, and Sam’s had already been past that point for a couple of decades by now. He was constantly tired of being angry. He liked being happy, or, you know, content.

And yet sometimes, sometimes it felt so _good_.  
He could feel the anger gnawing at him, chomping on his inside, and it was so twisted that it felt _good_ , all that propelling power pushing him forward, pumping him with destructive energy and screaming at him _moremoremore_ , _crushcrushcrush_ , _hurthurthurt,_ no matter what, who, how, just do it.

 

Self-destructive and fucking liberating.

 

A second passed, then two, and Sam could see the puzzlement and annoyance on Dean’s face.  
_Yeah_ , he thought, clenching his jaw, _yeah, fucking answer me!_

But then Dean deflated, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and Sam halted, confused.

“Sam,” Dean said, voice strangely placating “look at yourself, man. You're so angry you're shaking with it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Sam bit back, but his own tone made him pause: it sounded spiteful, harsh, and so, so over the top.  
He blinked, and looked down at himself. His fists were clenched tight, his body angled forward for a fight, and he was panting, taking in short, abrupt intakes of breath.

And his fucking hair was making him crazy, itching all over his neck.

“Fuck,” he said, resisting the irrational urge to fist a hand in it and tear a lock out. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, made a conscious effort to calm down, focused on his diaphragm, like he had learned to do at Stanford so many years ago.  
In, out. _Too harsh._ In, out. _Don’t use your chest, you have to breathe with your gut._ In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.  
In.  
Out.

 

“Sorry,” he said, once his breathing had turned back to something reasonable. “I don’t know what’s got into me, I’m just tired.”

He distractedly pushed his hair behind an ear, but he pulled his hand back too quickly and, just like had happened countless times before, the hair came back down, brushing against his jaw.

 

This time, though, he saw fucking red.

 

Before he could do anything about it, beside gulping sharply, Cas stepped forward and gently circled Sam’s wrist with his fingers.   

“You’re in need of an haircut,” he stated, and Dean snorted from across the table. When Sam glared at him, he hold his hands up in mocking surrender. “Don’t smite me with that look, Mr. Furious.”

“You’re in need of an haircut,” Cas said again, raising his voice over Dean’s. “Your hair is clearly bothering you. Let us help.”

Sam sighed, unconsciously twisting his wrist in Cas’ hold, but Cas didn’t bulge.

“It’s not that,” Sam answered after a beat, shaking his head. “I just get angry sometimes. It’s fine, I’ll get over it. Just leave me alone for a couple of days.”

He tugged his arm back, but Cas only tightened his fingers around it.

Sam took a deep breath again.

He knew Cas had all the best intentions, but he didn’t have a fucking clue of what to do. Sam honestly just wanted to be left alone, take a shower and maybe go for a run. He knew himself better than everyone else, and this, the intent, determined expression in Cas’ eyes? It would have just been a waste of time for everyone to even hear his plan.

“Cas, really, leave me alone,” he warned, keeping his tone as polite as he could. “Trust me, I know how to deal with this.”  

“Clearly not,” Cas answered, and Sam had to make a deliberate effort not to scowl at him.

 

_Just keep breathing evenly, Sam._

 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, finally giving up on his not so subtle attempts of freeing himself.

“You’ve been upset for days, Sam.” Cas said, watching him carefully. “Today has been the worst so far, I believe.”

“What?” Sam frowned, “That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.” Dean stood up and walked around the table to join them.

“It’s been building up, man. You've been snappish for the last couple of days, but today took the cake.”

Sam wanted to argue, but now that they had mentioned it, he realized he had been kind of skittish, growing irritated over stupid stuff and answering with too much bite to easy jokes.

He had been kind of avoiding Dean and Cas, too, albeit not consciously. His subconscious must have registered the signs and known it was better if he stayed the hell alone.

“Sorry, guys,” he said, suddenly tired.

 

He didn't feel that _good_ anymore. Anger was turning back to be just plain wearying, and it left a sour taste in his mouth, like it often happened when he let the worst of himself take hold of everything else.

The aftermaths always brought disappointment, shame, and a little, tiny trail of fear, twisted around old memories of losing control, losing a grip on rationality, in a time that felt like hundreds of lives ago.

Anger felt just a little too much like addiction at times.

 

“Just let me alone, okay?” he said, taking a deep breath and trying to will himself to calm the hell down. _Control yourself, control your lungs_. “I’ll go out, see if that helps. Exercise a little.”

He shook his arm at Cas, and Cas made a face but finally let go.

“Sorry if I've been a dick.” Sam added, fighting the itch to rub at his wrist. “Don't take it personally.”

“Sounds awfully like the ‘it's not you, it's me’ speech,” Dean murmured, and flinched when Cas elbowed him in the ribs.

Sam smiled a little at that. Cas still exaggerated gestures, sometimes, and Sam often felt weirdly proud when he would try out a new one, adjust it a bit, and finally get it right.

In the meantime, though, it was endearing to see him amplifying simple acts. Mostly because it was at Dean’s expense, usually.

Cas caught his smile and answered with a one of his own.

“I know you’re used to deal with these angry spells alone,” he started, and Sam’s grin faltered.

“Cas, please,” he cut in, holding his hands before him as if to stop the other’s words.

“Hear him out, Sammy,” Dean said, and Sam turned to him, surprised.

“It's a good plan.” Dean insisted, “I know I’ve just let you sort this shit out on your own in the past, but maybe I shouldn't have had. You're not alone, man. Let us help.”

Sam hesitated. He hadn't been expecting that - Dean knew him, knew that this thing only lasted for a few days and that it wasn't a big deal.

 

They had had always treated his sudden bursts of anger like they were inevitable, an annoying recurrence that meant either a couple of days alone, or Dean being as conciliatory as possible. Which wasn't easy for Dean. At all. He had always managed to turn in a frustrated mother hen, very far from ideal.  
But they had managed so far, without much trouble. It was annoying, yes, but it wasn't dangerous, it wasn't consuming, it wasn't unbearable. Sam just had to power through a week of feeling like crap, between the actual rage and the aftermath, and then he was up and ready to go again.

Of course, he wasn’t stupid. He knew this stuff wasn't healthy, that it was a symptom of something deeper, but honestly? He had never expected for his mind to be completely fine, not with the life he had been living. He had mourned so many lovers and friends, he had been tortured for decades, he had been crazy, he had been demoniac, he had been _soulless_. It was a wonder that inexplicable surges of anger were the only serious long-term prices he had to pay.

 

There was no reason to treat all this as bigger than it actually was.

 

“Look, you’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said, but Dean and Cas just looked back with the same resolute expression.

Sam didn’t know how much longer he could have lasted like this, trying to argue only for a little space for himself to calm down. His patience was worn thin to begin with.

“Sammy,” Dean said, coming closer. He put an hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You’ve got nothing to lose, beside a couple of inches of hair. Let us help.”

Jesus, it would be easier, quicker, to just say yes. If he managed to resist for a couple of hours, then, after, maybe they would let him be.    

He sighed, and said, “Alright. What do you have in mind?”

 

˜˜˜

While Cas had gone to take all the stuff he needed, Dean had lead him in a warm room near the bathroom. Sam had thought he had done a quite good job of exploring the bunker, but he had actually bypassed this area, somehow mistaking it as full of storage rooms.

There was a comfortable-looking chair in the middle of the room, a soft-looking carpet under it, and an average-looking stool nearby, but apart from that, it was empty. And the walls were painted cream. Weird.

“Did you guys decorate it?” he asked, sending Dean a dirty look.

Dean rolled his eyes. “I love you, but not this much.”

“Jerk,” Sam said, jostling Dean’s shoulder with his own.

Dean grunted and swiftly cuffed him on the neck. “Bitch,” he answered, but he was smiling.

 

Cas came in a few minutes later, carrying a big, heavy basin made of clear stone, half-full of water - definitely not something a human could have easily moved - and two small bags. He handed one to Dean, and went to position the basin behind the chair.

Watching it more closely, Sam could see two small bowls in its concavity, placidly floating around.

“It would be best if you could remove your shirt,” Cas said, pulling bottle after bottle out of his bag.

Sam opened his mouth to ask why, to ask what the point _of all of this_ was, but he stopped himself at the last moment.

He only had to amuse them for a little while. Then he could take off and be blissfully alone. The anger was not as pressing anymore, and shame was starting to raise its ugly head, and he just wanted to deal with this stuff on his own.

He loved Dean and Cas, and he could even be grateful they had gone to such extent to help, but he didn’t want company right now.

He shrugged his shirt off, now down only to his undershirt. He threw it at Dean, perched on the stool with an old magazine in his hands, who managed to catch it before it could hit his face, and folded it neatly before putting it on the floor. Sometimes his brother was a little too tidy.

“Thank you. Sit on the chair, please.”

Cas was watching him expectantly from behind the basin, sleeves pulled up to his elbows.  

Sam decided just to go with the flow.

He reached the chair and sat down, leaning against the seatback. It _was_ comfortable, just enough plush to gently carry his weight but not nearly as much to make him sink into it. Not a bad place to spend two hours on.

Gentle hands cradled his head, trying to coax his neck to bend, and he couldn’t help but make a little resistance despite his earlier decision.

“Relax, Sam.”

Sam took a deep breath, then another, and gave in, letting Cas guide his head where he wanted it.

He found himself staring at the ceiling, catching glimpses of Cas’ turfs now and then. He could hear water splashing faintly beneath his head, the light sound of pages turning, the little _pops_ of caps being unplugged, but it wasn’t enough to make him relax, not really.

“Close your eyes, please,” came Cas' voice, and Sam twisted a bit to look at him.

Cas was smiling at him, upside-down.

“We’re going to tell you what happens before we do something, don’t worry,” Dean said from his corner, and Sam let his head fall back again against the basin’s edge, which  wasn’t as hard as he expected it to be - the area where he was resting his nape felt smoother than the rest.

He closed his eyes, and almost immediately Cas started talking.

“I’m going to pour water on your hair,” he said, gathering it all in his hands and away from his neck. “It’s already warm, but tell me if it’s not enough.”

Sam waited, listened to the sloshing caused by the bowls, and after a couple of seconds, heated water gently fell on his head in a controlled flow, only to wear thin soon after.   

    

Cas repeated the process a few times, making sure to wet every part of Sam’s hair, and for a while the only thing touching Sam was the water.

It was nice. Its caresses were light, they didn’t linger too much, and they were cleansing. They were relaxing muscles whose tension he had ignored, and he slowly found himself leaning more heaving against the chair, spreading his legs and breathing deeply.

Cas’ voice was low when he spoke again.

“I have to touch you now. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered, coming up a little from his calm headspace.

A little clattering behind him, then Cas’ fingers came to softly rub at the skin beneath his hair, and a delicate, fresh scent gradually grew in the air.

He kept it up, gently digging, until Sam sagged in his chair, body loose and pliant.

Then it was the water again, descending on him, washing away the soap and the sweat and the rage and the shame.

 

“I’m switching place with Dean,” Cas murmured from above him, and Sam opened one eye to look at him. Had he ever stopped smiling?

Dean came into view, and Sam saw him ruffing Cas’ hair and gave him a quick caress on the cheek, and then Cas was gone, but Sam could still hear him moving around in the room.

Dean smiled down at him, and Sam smiled back, a little lopsided because he was tired and comfortable and sleepy, and closed his eyes again.

Hands were on him again, bigger, more callous, tugging pleasantly at his hair and keading his skin.

“Gonna cut, Sammy. Still want that?”

Sam nodded and let the regular, snapping sound of the scissors relax him even further.

He could almost see Dean aligning the ends, making sure they were on the same level, and carefully cutting just beneath the line his fingers made.

 

 _Snap_ , _snap_ , _snap_.

 _Let it go_ , _let it slip away_ , _let Dean cut it off_.

 

Dean worked more slowly than he would have normally had, that Sam knew, and he knew it was for his own benefit, to make him feel every lock falling down and falling away.

 

This, too, was fucking liberating.

 

After a time Sam could not hope to measure, so lost in his own feelings, he heard Dean putting down the scissors and felt his hands brushing off all the sliced hair that had stuck to the rest.

Cas came to them, too, then, bringing a fluffy cloth, and Dean and him together towelled Sam’s hair until it was more humid than wet, silky at the touch.  

When they helped him sitting straight, or at least slumped against the backseat, he could feel the air of the room on his neck, and it was almost an unfamiliar feeling but a welcomed one nonetheless.

Dean smirked down at him, but his eyes were soft. “Wanna see the damage?” he asked, and Cas offered him a mirror, but Sam didn’t really need to look at his reflection - although he would, obviously, later, because, hey, his hair.

 

The truth was, he already had all he needed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I know that to someone who has never experienced irrational bursts of anger, Sam’s behaviour could seem a little exaggerate, but I assure you, it’s not. You have to trust me on this, or, like, google it, maybe.
> 
> 2\. Mr. Furious is actually a character from the movie Mystery Men. 
> 
> Comments and kudos would satisfy my praise!kink immensely. Just sayin'. I accept criticisms as well. Also if you spot any mistake/misspelling you are required to let me know, it’s the law. 
> 
> [[Send me a prompt!](http://buckybee.tumblr.com/post/149888846999/prompts-open)]


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